


A Mother Once More

by msmenna



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 11:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12210786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmenna/pseuds/msmenna
Summary: Set in my "Patient #9" AU,  this tale brings Matthew to Crawley House to visit his mother the day after he regained his memory and returned to his family at Downton Abbey.Poignant reunion between mother and son.





	A Mother Once More

Tom Branson sat dead center on the striped scatter rug that lay over the elegant Turkish carpet in the children's nursery with his legs bowed and a wide-eyed toddler planted at each side. His eyes, as well as theirs, were fixed on the handsome, fair haired man that would be Earl of Grantham one day, who at that moment was happily ensconced in a winged back chair a few feet away, turning a page in one of the most popular books ever written.

Having just returned home the day before to the utter astonishment of all who resided at Downton Abbey as they believed him dead and buried, Matthew Crawley was thoroughly enjoying his task at hand. Eager to return to it, he cleared his throat, focused his eyes on the first line of the new page and picked up where he had left off in his narration.

By the time the chapter came to and end, his mouth felt dry and he paused to take a sip of water from the tall glass that sat on the nightstand near his niece Sybbie's bed. As he did, his eyes scanned his audience in order to assess his performance, and he found the three members that constituted it smiling up at him from their position on the floor.

Matthew followed suit, pleased that his narration was being well received and even more so that he was reunited with those he held most dear. The knowledge that he was in his home reading a story to his child filled him with amazement and gratitude in equal measures; and with a happy heart, he resumed "Dr. Doolittle".

"Then Jip went up to the front of the ship and smelt the wind; and he started muttering to himself,

"Tar; Spanish onions; kerosene oil; wet raincoats; crushed laurel-leaves; rubber burning; lace-curtains being washed-No, my mistake, lace-curtains hanging out to dry; and foxes-hundreds of 'em-cubs; and-"

"Can you really smell all those different things in this one wind?" asked the Doctor.

"Why, of course!" said Jip. "And those are only a few of the easy smells-the strong ones. Any mongrel could smell those with a cold in the head. Wait now, and I'll tell you some of the harder scents that are coming on this wind-a few of the dainty ones."

Then the dog shut his eyes tight, poked his nose straight up in the air and sniffed hard with his mouth half-open."

He stopped then, a quizzical expression on his face as he addressed the only other adult in the room.

"I am enjoying this book very much, Tom, but don't you think it too complex for the children to grasp? After all, George is still wearing nappies." Matthew said in as serious a tone as he could muster considering the argument he just presented to make his case.

"No doubt it is," Tom replied, settling his squirming daughter Sybbie onto his lap. "However, I don't think it matters what book you read to these two as they respond as favorably to one as they do another. In fact, I suspect if I read the instructions on how to replace a carburetor from my mechanics manual to them, they would still grin like loons."

At that moment George began bouncing up and down and crying out, "book…book" at the top of his lungs, interrupting both his uncle's train of thought and anything his father might have to offer on the subject at hand.

The erstwhile chauffer smiled broadly at his nephew before turning to his own child and pushing a stray curl behind her ear.

"It is your presence and the attention that you give them that makes them happy, Matthew," Tom continued. "As for George and Sybbie sitting still while you read to them, I think your skill in bringing the story to life worked that bit of magic. Truth be told, even I found myself mesmerized by your melodious voice".

Catching sight of the playful glint in his brother-in-law's eyes, Matthew replied with dramatic flair, "Why, thank you, Tom. It pleases me to no end to know that my humble recitation has brought you so much pleasure."

The two men then dropped their pretense and burst out into laughter, leading their offspring to mimic their behavior, both children giggling in unison.

Matthew pondered Tom's theory as he reached down and picked George up from the floor. Noting that his son and niece had hung on his every word even though he was certain they didn't understand them all, he conceded his brother-in-law's argument had merit.

"You are probably right about the reading material, Tom, but I would imagine no matter how melodious my voice, the children would have enjoyed flipping through the pages of an illustrated book just as much, if not more."

After considering Matthew's claim for a moment, Tom agreed, "They might at that. I have seen how much they enjoy them, especially the colorful ones. Though I think you may be selling yourself short. You do have a way with words."

Carefully prying each of his son's tiny fingers from the death grip they had on his tie, Matthew chuckled before resuming, "In all seriousness, I recall reading an article while I lived in London that stated both children and adults respond favorably to that type of visual stimulation. In fact, it has been proven through scientific study that certain colors can even improve one's mood."

He then proceeded to share his recollection of the Dowager Countess's first visit to him and his mother at Crawley House, soon after they had moved to Downton from Manchester.

"Violet brightened considerably upon seeing the colors Mother had chosen for the drawing room, remarking it was vastly improved by her renovations." Then after a short pause he added, "Though I cannot say with certainty that her appreciation of the changes made was not due to the fact that her mother-in-law had decorated the room previously."

Tom chuckled, "Likely the latter, which I'm sure wasn't lost on Isobel.

"Speaking of which, I've promised her a visit and so must unfortunately put an end to my narration for the moment."

"Go on then," Tom said. "I'll keep these two busy until their nanny comes to serve them their dinner."

Matthew nodded and then kissed George's forehead before handing him over to his uncle.

"I'll come to tuck you in later, little chap," Matthew said, patting his son on the head and then making his way toward the door.

Reaching the threshold, he turned to take one more look at George and found him industriously engaged in tugging on Tom's earlobes, the tot clearly delighted by his new discovery.

The sight made him want to burst into laughter, but he managed to forestall it for Tom's sake until he reached the stairs leading from the gallery to the main floor. As he descended the steps, his own merriment was drowned out by the sound of Tom's protests and the children squealing, their ruckus loud and clear even as he reached the first landing.

Though the sounds emanating from the nursery gradually dissipated, the smile on his face remained frozen in place as he stepped into the back seat of the Earl of Grantham's new Model T sedan.

…

The grand car muddled along at a slow pace due to the wet roads, which suited Matthew just fine. The last thing he wanted on his second day back at Downton was to be involved in an auto collision, even a minor one. The slow ride also gave him a chance to collect his thoughts. There had been so much that had happened in the last 48 hours that he felt as though his head was spinning.

A vision of Mary running toward him at breakneck speed when he revealed himself to her in the courtyard at Downton Abbey, his mother's face aglow with happiness pressed to the window of the physician's car that had brought him home and George in his arms in the nursery calling him as 'Papa' for the first time played out in succession in his mind's eye.

Lost in his thoughts, Matthew hadn't noticed that they had arrived at Crawley House and was startled when Mr. Stark announced, "Give me a moment to get the door, Sir. The ground is quite slippery."

"Of course," Matthew responded. Then he lifted his hat from the black leather seat and positioned it on his head.

"Watch your step, Mr. Crawley," the driver cautioned as a cold blast of air swept through the car.

Matthew declined the servant's proffered hand, instead gripping the door frame for support in exiting the vehicle and then rising to his full height beside the driver.

"Mr. Stark, I'm going to be visiting with Mrs. Crawley for a good hour or so and then we both will be heading back to Downton to join the family for dinner. Would you like to wait here, perhaps avail yourself to some refreshment in the kitchen? I doubt anyone else will require your service tonight."

"That sounds like a fine idea, Sir," the chauffer replied. "A hot cup of tea would definitely hit the spot right now."

"No doubt it would and….," the future Earl managed to say before his hat was blown off his head and took flight, leading both him and Mr. Stark on a merry chase.

A minute later, Matthew stood next to the driver with his hat in hand, wiping away crystals of ice that clung to his chilled skin with the trailing end of the scarf around his neck.

He then picked up where he had left off, "Hopefully you will get to sample one of Mrs. Crawley's dare I say incomparable blueberry scones to go with your tea," Mr. Stark. "…though I implore you not to repeat what I've just said to Mrs. Patmore."

Smiling broadly in spite of being pelted by snow, the chauffer replied, "No worries, Mr. Crawley, my lips are sealed," and then headed off to move the car to a more sheltered spot. …

Matthew surveyed both the house and grounds upon reaching the entrance to the dwelling he had once shared with his mother and found both the weathered stone structure and landscape lovelier than ever blanketed in white. He then proceeded to vigorously stomp his shoes on the rectangular mat that lay at its door.

Once he felt confident that he would no longer trail snow inside, he reached for the round brass knocker before him, quite ordinary in comparison to the ornate wolf heads that graced Downton's massive entrance doors. However, his hand found no purchase as the door unexpectedly swung open, bringing him face to face with a clearly startled maid carrying a large metal bucket by its handle.

The tall, thin woman, donned in the grey and white garb customary to her station in life gaped at him for a long moment and then gasped before she dropped the metal container to the ground with a loud clank. Landing on its side, the contents spewed out quickly, depositing a mound of rock salt over his shoes.

"It's you!" the maid screeched, her eyes wide as saucers and complexion turning nearly as white as the frost that covered the ground.

Surprised by the woman's reaction and preoccupied with the mess at his feet, Matthew mumbled, "Sorry?" as he took a step back and began stomping again.

Now pointing one of her long index fingers straight at him, the servant stammered, "You're….you're…,"

"I'm Matthew Crawley." he finished obligingly.

The servant's face contorted into a grimace upon hearing his name and she retreated, gripping the doorframe for support with her free hand.

Noting his introduction did nothing to calm her rattled nerves, Matthew was about to suggest that the maid summon her mistress when his mother beat him to the punch.

"Is something wrong, Mrs. Simmons? I heard a loud clatter and…..Matthew!" Isobel cried out.

Trained as a triage nurse, she quickly assessed the situation at hand and sprang into action. Noting her maid's discomposure, the accumulation of snow on her son's coat, empty metal bucket at his feet and salt scattered haphazardly about, Isobel took Matthew by the arm and pulled him into the house, beckoning Mrs. Simmons to follow.

Once inside, she addressed her maid first, asking that she fetch a towel from the linen closet and bring it to her as quickly as possible. Next, the servant was to clear the mess on the doorstep and then serve tea in the drawing room at her earliest convenience.

As soon as Mrs. Simmons was out of sight, Isobel turned to Matthew. Finding he now had rivulets of melted snow rolling down his face, she exclaimed, "Why on earth didn't you come in straight away?"

Matthew gaped at her for a moment as he mentally replayed the events that had taken place in the last five minutes. Imagining he must resemble a snowman under a hot sun, he removed his sopping hat from his head and chuckled as he handed it to his mother.

She stared at it the bedraggled Homburg as though it were a drowned rat, holding it at arms length by the brim as she placed it on one of the umbrella handles that rose up in the stand to the right of the door. Then turning back to him, she burst into a fit of giggles, herself.

"I would have come in sooner, Mother…," Matthew managed between guffaws. "…but your maid was so taken aback by my arrival that she could not function in a normal fashion. Truth be told, I feared she was going to have an apoplexy. No doubt I came as somewhat of a surprise to her."

Isobel opened her mouth to answer but closed it quickly when she spied Mrs. Simmons walking toward the two of them with a large white towel draped over her arm, broom and shovel in her hand and an anxious expression on her face.

Matthew put the towel that was offered to him to good use while his mother formally introduced her maid.

"I'm happy to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Simmons," Matthew said, sounding every bit a future Earl.

"I'm very sorry, Sir, for leaving you outside so long," the servant offered, her eyes filled with worry and remorse. "Mrs. Crawley did tell me that a miracle had taken place…that you were not dead as she had said when I first came to work here. Still, Sir, thinking of you as being a departed soul for so long and then seeing you standing in front of me did give me a bit of a turn. I hope that you can forgive my behavior."

Matthew assured Mrs. Simmons that her reaction to his impromptu arrival was completely understandable.

"I dare say I would react in quite the same manner should I find someone who I recently was told had returned from the grave on my doorstep. Please don't fret about your reaction another moment."

"I wholeheartedly agree, my dear," Isobel chimed in. "…and I apologize for not mentioning Matthew was coming to visit. The last two days have been a whirlwind for me; and in all honesty, it just slipped my mind."

Coming to the realization that she was not going to be sacked, the maid's shoulders dropped and she flashed a bright smile at her employer and resurrected son. Then she excused herself to address the mound of salt that needed to be dispersed outside.

Once the door closed behind her, Matthew bent and kissed Isobel's cheek before offering her an apology of his own.

"I'm sorry it took me so long, Mother. The London party only left an hour or so ago and truth be told, when I was offered the opportunity to read a chapter or two of "Dr. Doolittle" to George and Sybbie, it was too tempting for me to resist. Yet rest assured that I have been looking forward to this visit since my arrival yesterday a very great deal."

"My dear boy, there is no need to apologize," Isobel exclaimed, extending both her arms out to Matthew in order to retrieve his coat and scarf. Then after depositing both on the mahogany coat rack nearby, she looped her arm through his and led him to the drawing room.

…

Matthew scanned the room slowly as if he were seeing it for the first time, taking in every detail from the rich colors in the floral patterned Turkish carpet to the illustrious oil paintings that were displayed in gilded frames on the pale, blue walls.

Cousin Violet was right about this room, he thought as his eyes feasted on the beauty of it. The pastel color and rows of wide windows gave it a unique charm; the simple yet tasteful furnishings lending even further to the room's appeal. The ambiance generated a feeling of warmth and serenity.

Continuing his perusal of his surroundings, his eyes halted at the photographs that lie on a small table pressed against a corner wall. The portraits were all encased in matching silver-gilded, dark wood frames; the images bathed in the golden light that emanated from a floor lamp with a tasseled shade that stood close by.

In the center of the table stood a wedding photograph of him and Mary, the two of them smiling from ear to ear. He stared at the image of his wife for a long moment, his lips curving upward as he told himself that she had never looked lovelier than she did that day.

Just a few seconds before the camera had flashed, Mary had told him between clenched teeth that her face was beginning to hurt from smiling so much. His recollection widened the smile that had not yet completely abandoned his face while he made a mental note to share it with her after they had retired to bed that evening.

To the right was a photograph of his father, Reginald Crawley, which he judged was taken shortly before he died. He appeared as he pictured him most often in his mind, looking every bit the prominent physician he had been in his dark suit and horn rimmed, metal glasses. The spectacles magnified his blue eyes in person, but sadly his father's most coveted feature was lost in the white and black representation of his likeness.

Though he wasn't present when the portrait was taken, the bright smile on his father's face was a clear indication that his mother had been in close proximity. Thinking back to his childhood, he realized that had often been the case; and he was grateful to have been witness to a marriage born of love and not necessity.

To the left of his father's portrait was an image of Mary holding their son George in her arms, the smile on her face quite different than the one she displayed in the memento from their wedding day. Knowing Mary as he did, he knew it had been manufactured for his mother's sake.

George's smile, on the other hand was no doubt genuine as he flashed two tiny front teeth for the photographer. He sat happily on his mother's lap, the dimpled legs protruding from his sailor suit stilled by her loving hand.

A paper hat with a large red number 1 at the center of it sat on his head, signaling the special occasion. The sight simultaneously warmed and broke his heart as he was reminded that his son's first birthday would always be someone else's memory, never his.

"Matthew, is something wrong?" snapped him out of his musing.

He turned to his mother, her concern for his sudden change in mood plain on her face and replied, "No, absolutely not. Everything is exactly as it should be."

…

Fully recovered, Mrs. Simmons entered the room with a wide grin planted on her face and a silver tray that held a freshly brewed pot of tea and the accoutrements that went with it.

Isobel motioned Matthew to take his customary seat in the armchair that sat opposite the grey jacquard settee she was headed for and he followed her direction. It provided him with an excellent view of the grounds and had always been his favorite.

"Thank you, Mrs. Simmons," the lady of the house said with a smile. "That will be all for now."

With that, the maid nodded her head and left the room with a pronounced bounce in her step, clearly pleased by the sudden turn of events that had taken place.

Once the door to the drawing room clicked shut, Isobel poured out a cup of the Yorkshire brew and handed it to Matthew before serving herself. Carefully balancing the Royal Albert bone china saucer, she settled into her seat and brought the steaming cup that she held to her lips.

Matthew gulped down a healthy dose of what he considered a balm for whatever ailed him and then placed his own cup down. Then he pushed back a loose strand of damp hair that had fallen onto his forehead before settling into his seat.

Though he usually had no problem in finding a comfortable position in this particular chair, he now found his bottom inching from side to side and front to back with no success in finding that perfect spot.

"Are you sure nothing is troubling you, Matthew?" Isobel asked for the second time since he arrived.

"No, I'm fine, Mother," he insisted, doing his best to remain still. "It is just…Well, I truly don't know how to describe it," he said, putting an end to his squirming and crossing one leg over the other.

"Take your time, Matthew," Isobel said softly. "Your mind has had to process a great deal in the last two days."

Returning the leg he had crossed to the ground, Matthew added, "I know this won't make any sense, Mother; but one part of me feels as though I sat in this very chair yesterday, while another deems it foreign."

Isobel assured him that what he was saying made perfect sense as she herself had experienced the paradox he had just described more than once in her lifetime.

"I felt much the same way when your father returned home from the Boer War in '03. As Reggie walked through the door in his civilian dress and called out my name, I had the odd sensation of hearing his voice for the first time while also feeling as though he never left."

Matthew reached across the small table that separated the two of them and grasped his mother's hand, "For as long as I can remember, you have eased my mind whenever it was troubled. I thank you for all the times you have, then and now."

She smiled, unable to speak for a moment as she found herself overcome by emotion. Then blinking several times to ward off tears that were threatening, she followed suit by expressing how grateful she was to have been even a small comfort to him.

"Knowing you feel that way means the world to me, Matthew," she managed to eek out, her voice cracking on his name. "And I, in turn, have been blessed to have you as my son."

The two of them remained silent for a long moment with their eyes filled with mutual admiration until Matthew released his mother's hand and slid back into his seat. Not giving it a thought, he crossed one leg over the other and encircling his ankle with both hands, he found his nirvana.

He let l out a long sigh of contentment which was quickly followed by, "This is my favorite chair at Crawley House, you know?"

Seeing the son she had believed lost to her forever until he was deposited at Downton's door a mere 24 hours earlier by the neurologist who had treated him in London, Isobel smiled, "Yes, I do, Matthew; and as of today, it is mine, too."

…

Since the decision had been made to forego formal attire that evening, the two of them had time to spare before the chauffer came to fetch them and conversed at their leisure, bringing each other up to speed on what their life had been like without the other in it.

"Dr. Head saved me in more ways than once," Matthew declared as he poured himself a second cup of tea. "Once it was determined that my physical injuries had healed and it appeared my amnesia may be permanent, the London Hospital discharged me. Had my neurologist and his wife Ruth not welcomed me into their home when I was released, I would most likely have wound up at the Whitechapel Workhouse, nameless and penniless as I was."

Though the fire in the heart raged, Isobel began to shiver upon hearing Matthew's declaration; and though she did her best to hide it from him, failed miserably.

He rose quickly from his seat and sat beside her on the settee, placing his arm around her shoulder and pulling her close to him.

"I'm an idiot," he spat with his chin resting lightly atop her head, his hand gliding up and down her arm in an attempt to ease her tremors.

Isobel objected to this self-flagellation through chattering teeth, to the point where he was forced to agree with her that he had done nothing wrong in order to not aggravate her condition.

He kept a close eye on the second hand of the Swiss mantel clock that had been a gift to his father from one of his colleagues to gauge the amount of time that had passed since his mother took a turn. Though the neurologist he had just heralded was now out of reach, he knew that Dr. Clarkson would come quickly if he summoned him.

As he pondered how much longer he should wait before calling the family physician, his deliberations were thankfully halted by the sound of his mother letting out a deep sigh as her body began to relax.

"Thank God," he muttered under his breath and then apologized for upsetting her.

"Nonsense, Matthew," Isobel exclaimed, patting his leg with a calm hand. "I'm fine, my dear. Truly, I am. You have nothing to be sorry for. I asked you to give me details of your life while you lived in London. Your prospects should you not have been blessed to have a friend in Dr. Head and his wife were part of that life. It is I who must apologize for my over-reaction to your response."

Removing his arm from her shoulder, Matthew filled her empty tea cup and handed it to her. Then he stated in a tone that brooked no argument that she had nothing to be sorry for as he, too, would have been rattled if he had just discovered George narrowly escaped such a horrible fate.

"And no doubt Mary would likely have reacted in a similar manner, Mother," he added to bolster his claim.

Isobel took a long sip from her cup and then setting it down on the table with steady hands, replied, "You may be right about Mary, but I wouldn't bet on it. I recall as if it were yesterday finding her at the Cottage Hospital on her way to empty a basin that contained your vomit after you were injured at Amiens. She had been told by Dr. Clarkson that you would never walk again. Yet, loving you as she did, one would never have known by her outward appearance that she was as shattered as you were."

He hadn't thought of that day for a very long time, even before the accident that stripped him of his memory the day his son was born. It had pained him to think of it just as the years he spent fighting for King and Country did; and so he did his best to block both from his mind.

However, while in London he had entered into therapeutic sessions with Dr. William Halse Rivers, the renowned psychologist hailed for his treatment of soldiers suffering shell shock. During that time, he had learned that although painful memories can be suppressed, they are never entirely expunged.

Now, he had no difficulty in envisioning the scene his mother had cited as testament to his wife's strength; and seeing it play out in his mind, he had to concur with her.

Still there was evidence that Mary was not invincible. At his urging, Dr. Clarkson had revealed to him that his wife had a rough go it for six months after his presumed death, the strife he spoke of confirmed by Mary, herself, to him the night before while she lay in his arms.

"I agree that my wife is made of stern stuff, but so are you Mother," Matthew declared. You are one of the strongest and most courageous people I've ever known, on or off the battlefield. Yet losing me the way you did was bound to knock the stuffing out of you. It would have me if I were in your shoes."

He paused then and watched her closely, hoping his words would hit home.

After a long moment, Isobel nodded, "Thank you, my dear. I appreciate your accolades very much. Rest assured, however, that I would not have been able to overcome my grief as I did had it not been for the support I received."

She was silent then, her blank stare leading Matthew to believe that she was dredging up some painful memories of her own.

"The day that your ashes…I'm sorry, Matthew, the day that what I presumed to be your ashes were buried, I returned here as if I, too, were dead…and with each day that passed, Crawley House came more and more to resemble a mausoleum instead of a home."

"Oh, Mother…," Matthew cried out, deeply saddened by her words.

Biting his lip, he reached across the table once more and took her hand, holding on tight as she poured her heart out.

"The bond between you and I had always been strong, even more so after your father passed…and I …Well, suffice to say I found it quite difficult to accept that the tie between us was permanently severed…that you would never again be a part of my life…that not only were you lost to me for the remainder of my days but to Mary and the child you had so desperately wanted. She paused a moment then and swallowed hard before spitting out, "It was so unfair…You had cheated death on the battlefield and overcome paralysis. I asked myself…I asked God…why you had been spared if you were to lose your life in a routine drive that you had made countless times before. It seemed a cruel joke."

Matthew frantically searched for the right words to comfort her but found none would do and cursed himself under his breath.

After an agonizing minute, Isobel raised her head, met his eyes and said softly, "I sunk deeper and deeper into a state of depression and didn't care that I did. You see, I had been a mother for 38 years; and then in the blink of an eye, I was not."

…

Matthew was pondering whether or not a parent would still be considered one should their only child die before they did when Isobel's mention of Edith broke him out of his morbid musings.

"She would visit often, bless her," she began, the tone of her voice a bit less subdued. "Each time, Edith would launch into her campaign to get me to visit Downton and each time, I flatly refused. However, she was quite persistent…I'll give her that…even going so far as to use George as bait to get me to agree."

Happy that his sister-in–law had remained steadfast in her efforts to pull his mother out of the doldrums, Matthew's smiled.

"I dare say she would have made an excellent solicitor," Isobel continued. She stood before me as if she were making her case before a judge, enumerating the reasons I should visit Downton. Her main one was that Mary would benefit from my experience in dealing with the baby. To Edith's dismay, I declined on the grounds that I didn't want to interfere."

At that moment a gust of wind rattled the window panes, startling them both and putting a temporary halt to Isobel's narrative.

His eyes now fixed on the panes of glass being plummeted by nature, Matthew, proclaimed, "If this keeps up, you may have to put me and Mr. Stark up for the night, Mother."

Following his line of vision, she replied, "It would be my pleasure; but let's hope it doesn't come to that. I think that you and Mary have been kept apart by outside forces quite long enough."

He nodded, "Yes, I wholeheartedly agree." Then turning his attention back to her, he said, "However, since we are both bound here until the weather improves, I would like to hear more about my sister-in-law's attempts to get you out of the house."

She smiled, "I will never forget the look of exasperation on her face. She stood rooted in place with her hands fisted at her sides and all but shouted at me that it was my job to interfere. Then she rolled her eyes at me."

Tilting his head to one side, Matthew chuckled, "Well that doesn't surprise me… especially the eye roll…She is Mary's sister, after all."

At that, the two of them both broke out into raucous laughter, the sound drowning out both the crackling fire and the rattling panes of glass.

Once he regained his composure, Matthew asked, "And did Edith win her case on her merits?"

"No, not as yet" Isobel replied, now somber again. "I told her that when your only child dies, you're not a mother any longer. In fact, you're not anything, really. She looked as though she were about to burst into tears; but then threw back her shoulders, looked me dead in the eye and countered that I was a grandmother before turning on her heels and storming out of the house."

Matthew slowly clapped his hands, "Bully for Edith."

"Her words hit home, Matthew, especially as they pertained to Mary and George. I could not deny that they needed me; and by refusing to be a part of their lives, I was letting them down…I was letting you down….and that was unacceptable to me. Knowing I was failing you both motivated me to pull myself up by my bootstraps and get back to the business of living…Well that and the Dowager Countess's constant nagging that I return to the fold."

"I must thank them both for their efforts," Matthew said, grateful to both for their efforts.

Isobel then informed her son that if he were making a list, he must add Dr. Clarkson to it as the physician had worked tirelessly to lift the fog of depression that had encompassed her.

"He first convinced me to allow Charles Grigg to stay at Crawley House in order for me to nurse him back to health," she informed him. "You do remember him don't you Matthew?"

Testing his newly found memory, Matthew searched his mind and was gratified that he could reply, "Yes, I believe I do." He paused then, searching his memory further before continuing, "Wasn't he the man who worked with Mr. Carson in the theater before he came to work at Downton? Mary told me of it in confidence. She was quite amused by it as I believe Lord Grantham was."

Isobel chuckled, "Yes, they were billed as the Cheerful Charlies back in the day. He is one in the same."

"But, Mother, how was it that you became his benefactor? I wasn't aware you even knew the man."

Isobel explained that Charlie Grigg's problem had been dropped in her lap by the Crawley family physician. Dr. Clarkson had advised her that Mr. Grigg was housed in the Ripon Workhouse and that he suffered a respiratory ailment that would lead to his death if he did not receive proper medical attention.

"The good doctor pleaded with me to visit him," she concluded.

"I see," Matthew said, quickly deducing the physician did so to help more than Mr. Grigg.

.

Isobel continued, "I did go to the workhouse, Matthew, and found the living conditions there horrendous…absolutely deplorable. That is why I fell to pieces when you told me you would have wound up in a similar place had Dr. Head not taken you in…and why I agreed to do the same for Mr. Grigg."

"Your compassion for others does you credit, Mother," Matthew said. "No doubt your intervention saved that man's life."

"It may have saved mine, as well," she replied. "Nursing him back to health and setting him on the right path once he was well enough to seek employment greatly lifted my spirits. I think Dr. Clarkson took note of it as he enlisted my service at the hospital on a part-time basis once Mr. Grigg set off for Belfast; and before long, I found myself leading a productive life again, in spite of myself," she concluded.

"I already owe Dr. Clarkson my life," Matthew said. "Now it appears I am indebted to him on your behalf as, well. I must find a way to convey my deep gratitude to him on both counts."

In answer to her son's quandary, Isobel offered, "I think his seeing you live a productive and happy life is the best thanks you can give him, Matthew. He was quite pleased that he played a role in my recovery. In fact, he would smile from ear to ear whenever I reported to work at the hospital, even when I challenged him."

"Your argument has merit, Mother. However, I wonder if Dr. Clarkson's joy in seeing you may have been rooted in something other than being gratified by the part he played in improving your mental state. Dare I say the good doctor may be a bit smitten with you?" Matthew teased.

Isobel's eyes widened and her cheeks glowed red at Matthew's inference. Quickly, she rose from her seat and strolled to the windows, her hands clasped together in front of her.

After a few seconds, Matthew saw that she was tapping her thumbs together in a quick rhythm as she often did when contemplating something of a serious nature. He had only been jesting about Dr. Clarkson; but now seeing his mother's reaction, realized he had hit a nerve, and was eager to set things straight.

"Mother, I was only…," he managed to get out before the shrill sound of the telephone ring cut him off.

A few second's later, Mrs. Simmons entered the room to advise him that Lady Mary was calling from Downton Abbey to speak with him. Matthew nodded in the maid's direction and rose quickly to take the call.

Once the maid was out of sight, he said, "I'll be back shortly, Mother, and will cease any mention of Dr. Clarkson if that suits you. Whether or not your friendship has evolved into anything more is none of my business…unless, of course, should you wish to share it with me."

Isobel turned then, her countenance appearing more peaceful as she replied, "There is no need to apologize, Matthew. As for Doctor Clarkson, I'm not being secretive. It is just that I'm not as yet certain as to what I would like our relationship to be. Until I am, I think it best that I not elaborate further on the matter."

Matthew nodded his head quickly and then headed out of the room. Not entirely closing the door behind him in his haste to speak to Mary, his assurances to her that there was no need to worry as he would not attempt to return to Downton if the snow kept up reached Isobel's ears and she smiled.

…

Matthew was back in the drawing room a few minute's later heading for his seat while he relayed what his mother already knew - Mary was concerned about the conditions of the road since the weather had worsened and cautioned him to remain at Crawley House if it did not improve.

Having returned to the settee while he was gone, Isobel turned to him and replied, "Well, it is completely understandable that she would be concerned for your safety under the circumstances, even though the trip home is such a short distance."

He settled back into his chair and gazed once more at the falling snow beyond the panes, hoping it would end soon.

"I've been thinking while you were gone that it must have been maddening for you, Matthew," Isobel exclaimed, breaking the silence in the room. "I cannot imagine how it felt not knowing who you were or remembering a single iota of your past life."

The conversation veering back to the time he spent in London, Matthew did his best to put into words exactly how he felt upon waking in The London Hospital with no memory, identified only as Patient #9.

"I felt a myriad of emotions and was overwhelmed by them at times. There was my fear of the unknown to contend with and anger that I was deposited at the hospital without a word as to where I was found or how I sustained my injuries. Sadness when I discovered I had a wife and perhaps a child that may be depending on me for support…"

He paused then as he searched the mental list he had prepared to see what he had missed.

"Frustration as my physical injuries healed, but nothing changed with regard to my memory. You see, Dr. Head had thought in the early days of my treatment that my amnesia likely a result of the head trauma I sustained. His belief was that my memory would be restored as my brain healed. When that didn't happen, my frustration led to depression, which eventually worsened to the point of my refusing to eat or leave my bed."

He fell into silence then as his mind was flooded with memories of his life as an amnesiac in the Whitechapel hospital he had called home for three months. Then he let out a long sigh before he resumed sharing his ordeal.

"There was also the added anxiety of wondering why neither my wife nor any member of my family had lifted a finger to find out what had happened to me. I now know that the reason a missing person's report was never filed was because you all believed me to be dead and buried. Unfortunately, that scenario never entered my mind at the time as I would not have conceived it was a possibility."

"No one would, my dear," Isobel concurred.

Matthew's mouth curved into a smile and he quipped, "After all, it isn't every day that a person who is pronounced dead rises from their table in the morgue."

Following suit, Isobel chuckled, "Well, one certainly would hope not."

"Therefore, not only was my identity a mystery but why no one had sought me out, as well. Detective Cosgrove even bandied about the idea that my wife may have been responsible for my injuries."

Isobel's eyebrows rose at that and she enquired whether or not he had shared that bit of information with Mary.

Matthew relayed that he had and wished she could have seen his wife's face in hearing that the detective from Scotland Yard, who had worked so diligently to discover his identity, had once thought her a suspect.

"Speaking of Detective Cosgrove, it is clear that you and Joseph hit it off famously in the short time he spent at Downton…and I'm glad you did," he said with a smile. "You know it wasn't all bad…the time I spent in London. I was blessed to be supported by so many wonderful people."

"And I'm eternally grateful to them," Isobel interjected. I told each one as much during the hours we spent together. Dr. Head and his wife graciously accepted my gratitude. However, Nurse Pomeroy insisted it was her pleasure and minimized the role she played in your recovery." She then caused her son's eyes to widen by adding, "You are aware that she was in love with you."

Regaining his composure, Matthew replied by asking "Do all women have a sixth sense when it comes to this sort of thing?"

Isobel laughed at that before she managed, "Mary?" between guffaws.

She and Matthew then discussed the matter at length, which led to her learning that though initially piqued, her daughter-in-law had calmed considerably once she saw how devoted Lilian Pomeroy was to her fiance', Joseph Cosgrove, and that Matthew had never thought of Lilian as anything but a dear friend.

"It was not just the friendships that I made, Mother," Matthew continued. "I thoroughly enjoyed the duties that I was charged with by Dr. Head at the London Hospital. The knowledge that I was helping those who suffered as I had gave me a sense of purpose. The small part I played in their recovery filled me with joy and pride. I think my experience has led to my having a better understanding of why you chose your profession, Mother."

Isobel was about to respond when she was interrupted by a knock at the door and Mrs. Simmons ushering Mr. Stark into the room.

Nodding his head in her direction before addressing Matthew, the chauffer cheerfully announced that the snow had stopped. He then asked if it was still his desire to return to Downton Abbey in time for dinner, adding that the roads were wet, but not icy.

"Yes, the plan still stands, Matthew replied. "And Mrs. Crawley and I are both anxious to get going since the dinner gong will be ringing shortly. Please bring the car around as soon as you can manage, Mr. Stark."

"Of course, Sir," the driver replied before placing his cap on his head and setting off for the door.

Matthew rose and crossed over to the windows, wiping the condensation that had accumulated on the panes at eye level with the sleeve of his jacket to get a better view of the landscape.

The grounds appeared a winter wonderland, white crystals sparkling in the moonlight on the tree limbs and shrubbery; and his lips curved upward at the sight. Yet his mood changed quickly as the realization that his grave was not far away crept into his mind and a shiver ran through his body.

"Is there a draft coming in?" Isobel called out, noticing him tremble while the gold damask drapes that hung on each side of the windows remained still.

"No, there isn't," Matthew replied, doing his best to keep his voice level.

Isobel began, "But, you're …,"

"I'm fine, Mother. Please don't concern yourself. My body became adjusted to the warmth of the fire and the temperature of the room drops here. That's all."

She nodded, accepting his explanation, even though she felt sure there was more to his discomfort than he let on. Then asked how he and Mary were adjusting and how he was getting on with George.

Addressing his son first, he replied, "Famously, with a grin from ear to ear. He truly is a remarkable little chap…affectionate….and extremely bright. Can you believe he is calling me, Papa, already?"

"That's wonderful, dear," Isobel replied, her eyes becoming misty. "Absolutely wonderful."

"And Mary has been…," he searched for words that were satisfactory, "….well, she has somehow managed to make me feel as though I never left."

"I'm so happy to hear it," Isobel replied.

Matthew became somber then as a question formed in his mind that he knew he must ask his mother before laying it to rest. Estimating the time it would take for Mr. Stark to clear the car; he set out to clear the air.

"Mother, were you aware that Mary had two suitors, Lord Gillingham and Charles Blake?"

At that, Isobel cleared her throat and rose to pour herself a glass of water from the pitcher that lay on a small side table a few feet away.

Once she had her fill and placed her glass down, she took a deep breath, let it out, and then replied, "Yes, Matthew, I did."

Matthew nodded his head and sighed, but said nothing further.

Taking up the reins, Isobel continued, "Once I returned to Downton, I learned that Mary had suffered a deep depression for months with no end in sight. Then Evelyn Napier showed up with Charles Blake in tow to gather information regarding the viability of the estates in the county for the government and… well suffice to say Mr. Blake and Mary began to bond….as friends," she added, noting the grimace on her son's face.

"Mary has filled me in on the details regarding Mr. Blake's stay at Downton already, Mother," Matthew said, eager to hear something he did not already know.

Isobel continued, "I see…Well, then, you may also know that Lord Gillingham is an old friend of the family. Apparently, he visited Downton often as a child. I came upon him one evening when I was invited to an impromptu concert of sorts at Downton that featured Dame Nellie Melba. Robert thought it time the Crawleys come out of mourning; and you know he and Cora never do anything in half measures. The whole affair was quite lavish."

"I have no doubt it was," Matthew said dryly.

"As for when I noticed his interest in Mary, it was the first time I had heard her laugh since we lost you …He was seated next to her and said something that caused her to burst into giggles." She frowned then and shook her head before adding, "It upset me…to see her laughing when you were….Well, I was wrong to feel that way and came to realize it relatively quickly. Mary deserved to be happy again…to live again."

Matthew interjected, "You both did, Mother."

Isobel nodded, "As for Lord Gillingham, it was clear to me and anyone else with eyes that he was quite smitten with Mary once they renewed their acquaintance and determined to win her over."

Matthew then questioned if that was the case with Mr. Blake.

After giving the question some thought, his mother replied, "Mary and he did not get along at all at first. They reminded me of how the two of you started out and then it just hit me one day - the lady protested too much," she said before bringing her glass of water to her lips and emptying it.

Matthew took his mother's observations in for a long moment, nodded and then asked her, "Did you have a preference, Mother?"

Noticeably taken aback by his question, Isobel hesitated a few seconds before replying, "My preference clearly would have been that you and Mary were never parted; but if that could not be avoided, I would have to say I think Charles Blake would have suited her better. He shared many of your fine qualities, Matthew. As for Lord Gillingham, the fact that he had thrown over his fiancé' in order to woo Mary cast a black mark on his character for me. He may have been born a gentleman, but his behavior belied that fact."

"Well, that is something I did not know," Matthew spat out, noticeably piqued by the revelation that his wife's suitor turned out to be somewhat of a scoundrel.

Isobel crossed the room and joined him, her hands outstretched in his direction as she declared, "Mary never looked at either of them the way she looks at you. She never stopped loving you, Matthew; and I feel quite certain that she never will."

He sighed then, letting out whatever tension had welled up in his body and concurred, "I believe you are right about that, Mother. I can feel it." Then after a short pause, added, "Mary and I have agreed to put the past behind us and I think it is time that I do just that."

"Jolly good," Isobel said.

Matthew smiled, "Now, I think we had better collect our coats and hats as Mr. Stark will be returning at any moment and I want to leave quickly so that I can arrive in time to tuck George into bed as I promised him I would."

In full agreement, Isobel returned his smile and took his arm. Then she and he made their way out of the drawing room and down the hallway leading to the front door, each of them speculating on which of Matthew's favorites Mrs. Patmore would be serving for dinner.

Reaching the end of the passageway, she stopped short, abruptly halting their progress.

"Did you forget something, Mother?" Matthew asked, turning his attention from Mr. Stark, who he had just spied coming through the front door to her.

"I forgot to thank you," she replied, her eyes becoming misty.

Tilting his head to the side as he always did when he was perplexed, Matthew asked, "Whatever for?"

Through veiled tears, Isobel gazed into blue eyes that mirrored her late husband's; and placing one hand over his and her son's, she replied, "For making me a mother, once more."

…

AN: All characters portrayed on Downton Abbey belong to Julian Fellowes and the rest from history or my own imagination. I give him credit for his and take it for mine.

I had always wished we would have been privy to the direct aftermath of Matthew's presumed death as I felt it necessary that we saw the pain of his loss firsthand. Having 6 months pass in between Seasons 3 and 4 may have seemed a good way to ease the fan's heartache, but it just made it worse for me as I felt what I imagined Mary and Isobel, especially, would have in losing someone they loved so dearly.

I hope that you enjoyed this one shot. There are more in my "Patient #9" AU. All my tales are built on Matthew returning to Downton in a plausible way. Hopefully, after reading my other stories, you will agree with me that he could have survived his accident.

Please review. I truly appreciate every one and they motivate me to write again.


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